


Variations & Fugues

by sunshiner



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Relationship Study, an exploration of the main tropes in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:16:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7833538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshiner/pseuds/sunshiner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thought of the long faces of the members of the Veretian council, when they had first suggested, with reluctant gravitas, the two kings should marry. Like it would be a hardship for them. Like it hadn't been an obvious consequence, so inevitable that it had been unspoken between him and Laurent until then, a silent promise.<br/>"Marriage," Laurent had said, his mouth curling. "How did we not think about it before, Damianos?" </p><p> </p><p>  <i>A collection of short stories for the Captive Prince week.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1 - Memories

“You wish to know.” 

Laurent sat propped against the pillows of their bed, his exquisite body naked in the afterglow. He was clutching his knees to his chest, every sinew tense.  

His hands were hidden behind his legs, like he wouldn’t have known what to do with them otherwise. 

Damen was keeping his distance, unsure of what would be welcome. Laurent looked like he could shatter with one wrong breath. 

 _Wish._   

The word didn't sit right in Damen's stomach. None of it did, but he was doing all he could to keep his hunger for violence in check. There was no precise target for it now,, and Laurent had no use of his anger. 

It was an easy outlet, a mindless one. Damen would do better this time. 

"I wish for a lot of things," he said. The hoarseness of his voice surprised him. "I wish for a sunny summer. I wish for a civilised discussion at the next council meeting. I wish for time to make love to you tomorrow morning." He saw Laurent's shoulders loosen, his mouth twitch. "I wish to run my sword through anyone who's ever caused you hurt, even if it includes me. I wish for you to never know hurt again. I wish you never did. I wish I could erase it all." 

"Fool," Laurent murmured. He was still staring straight ahead, unfocused. His cheeks were flushed. 

"So no, I do not wish to know. But I wish to ease your burden, if sharing it with me would relieve you. Reassure you, if having me know and not treat you differently would give you comfort. I told you there would not be secrets between us – I meant it. Whatever you want me to hear, I will listen.” He took hold of one of Laurent’s ankles, Laurent’s skin scalding and silky and strained under his touch. Laurent let his hand slide down until it rested over Damen’s. “Not out of curiosity,” Damen said, emboldened by their shared heat, “but out of love.” 

Laurent, his blue eyes shielded by his golden fringe, exhaled, the exhausted sound of a drowning man resurfacing. 

"Is that how you sweet-talked Paschal into cutting your bed rest short?" he said. 

Damen, who was getting used to the layers of speech Laurent shielded his meaning behind, smiled at the soft undertones in Laurent's words, the moved quality of his voice he couldn't quite repress. He lifted his fingers to the blond tendrils of hair covering Laurent's forehead and swept them away with a careful flick of the wrist. 

With the movement, the feeble light of the candles caught on his golden cuff and on the flecks of silver in Laurent's liquid eyes, the colour blue and thick like melted metal. 

"Do you wish to tell me?" Damen asked. It was imperative that the final decision lay in Laurent's hands, and his alone.  

He whispered it, hushed, for the sound shouldn't carry outside their tentative alcove, their world within the world that contained only them, starkly demarcated from their responsibilities and duties outside, but on the inside without boundaries. 

"No," Laurent said. He stretched his legs in front of him, his lips dancing in that way Damen knew signalled Laurent was debating whether to suppress an instinctive reaction or let it happen. With Damen, the latter won more and more frequently nowadays. 

"No," he repeated, his fingers toying with Damen's, their hands still loosely joined. He looked directly at Damen for the first time since the conversation started, one corner of his mouth slightly curled upward. "But I will." And then, his expression darker, "I wish there was a way for you to know without me having to say the words. To pour my mind straight into yours." 

He winced, as if he'd just verbalised something he hadn't been aware of. 

For someone like Laurent, who kept his plans private and his thoughts concealed behind walls and barricades, it must be unthinkable - to relinquish access to the most hidden parts of him, to desire it to the point of cursing the impossibility of it.  

Then again, everything about them had been unthinkable to Laurent for the longest time. 

"I hope you realise," said Laurent. "That I may just give up my throne." The words were difficult, but not harsh. "After a few choice words of yours." 

Damen collected Laurent in his arms, his body a careful reassurance. Their limbs fell together in a practiced dance, Laurent's breath on Damen's neck and Damen's hand on Laurent's thigh.  

There was nothing Damen could say. It'd be pointless to tell Laurent Damen would give up his throne for him - he already had. 

Their cuffs were touching, their shoulder scars so close they were almost mirror images, but in their proximity Damen felt the divide between their shared history and the tragedy that was Laurent's alone.  

Laurent shifted, and so did the air around them. He sat in the middle of their unmade bed, away from Damen's touch – as Damen had expected -, but still facing him, which surprised him.  

Their eyes met. Damen thought, _this is how it happens._  

"It started gradually," said Laurent. 

Damen's hands curled into fists, but he hid them under a heap of blankets.

 

 


	2. Day 1 - Prospects

Laurent coiled and uncoiled in his sleep, as he always did before waking, long pale limbs twisting and delighting Damen with aimless, erratic touches. 

Damen dragged his palm from Laurent's chest to his hip, tracing the gaps between each rib, enjoying the feel of taut muscle beneath milky skin. 

Laurent's eyes were already blinking open, the blue startling in the early morning light. 

"Exalted," said Damen. He'd been waiting a long time for this particular pleasure. 

Laurent let out a low moan, trapped somewhere between mock annoyance and emotion. "You must be still drunk from last night," he said, "if you expect me to welcome an Akielon honorific." 

But he was moving on top of Damen in a whole body caress. With their chest were pressed together, rising and falling like twin waves, "Your Majesty," he murmured into Damen's neck. 

It was a simple play between lovers - for now. It was unclear what Laurent was for Akielos or Damen for Vere. The members of their respective councils had at least, some with more hesitancy than expected, agreed they weren't queens. 

There was a hole in the protocol, now that they were married. 

 _Married_. 

Damen wound his arms around Laurent's lithe, wonderful body and held him as tight as he could, his exhilaration threatening to melt his skin from the inside. 

He thought of the long faces of the members of the Veretian council, when they had first suggested, with reluctant gravitas, the two kings should marry. Like it would be a hardship for them. Like it hadn't been an obvious consequence, so inevitable that it had been unspoken between him and Laurent until then, a silent promise. 

"Marriage," Laurent had said, his mouth curling. "How did we not think about it before, Damianos?" 

Laurent, the Laurent in his arms, his sweet playful private Laurent, tugged at the curls at the back of his neck. "Damen," he said. "Use your words before your muscles. Don't I always tell you? Don't stifle your husband, it's bad for the crown's image." 

Damen laughed and squeezed him tighter, briefly, before releasing him.  

Laurent settled comfortably on his chest, chin in his palm. The view blurred with a memory: Laurent, in this same position, the night after that council meeting. 

"I was thinking buttercups," Damen had said. "For the feast. To go with your hair." 

Laurent had looked unsure and young, his fingers almost trembling. He hadn't needed to voice his concerns for Damen to hear them. 

"We were always going to," Damen had continued, palm wide on Laurent's flushed cheek. "Tomorrow. In a year. In ten years. It doesn't matter. Now, if you want." 

"Now, if you want to offend everyone by denying them an invite to the royal wedding," Laurent had said. He was a strategist even while terrified. Damen could swear Laurent's heartbeat had been so frantic he had felt it. "Damen. You have to be sure. There's no going back afterwards." 

As if there had been going back for Damen ever since a tavern inn and a sapphire earring. 

"Damen." Laurent brought him back to the present, amused like he always was when Damen got lost in a daydream.  

"We should get up," Damen said, but he only rested his hands on Laurent's back. A fingertip trailed the line where Laurent's back dipped in the middle, then up, rising and falling with every notch of his spine, until he met hair. Once he was there, cupping the back of Laurent's head, he brought him close for a kiss, because he could, because they were married, because they were going to get to do this for the rest of their lifetimes. 

"You just want to parade me around," said Laurent, lips a darker shade of pink. 

"I do," said Damen. Laurent's hair was so soft. Maybe he was still drunk. "I want every single courtier who ever made a comment about our union to witness this and choke on it. I feel my happiness could drown them. I'm glad the council didn't enforce your Veretian custom about consummation, because I couldn't have born it. I get jealous when they whisper in your ear, Laurent. I get jealous when the wind ruffles your hair. I have to stop myself from smoothing it back in place." 

"There was no point in watching us fuck. Nevermind that we can't make an heir: there is no person from Arles to Isthima who would doubt we fuck, lover." 

"You said it like I was the one adamant to let everyone know during our campaign, _lover_."  

Something softened in Laurent's expression, and he sighed. 

"We were travelling with the woman you used to love." There was no banter in his voice anymore, only truth. "Who claimed to be the mother of your child. Something you could never have with me. And you think you know jealousy, Damianos." 

"But now I can." Damen heard his voice come out solemn and hopeful, rough. "Have it with you." 

It had been an envelope with the seal of the Empress, at first. Then, negotiations and renegotiations with Vannes, followed by a proposed treaty. An alliance in exchange of a child with king's blood in her veins. And now, a Vaskian delegation already travelling from Skarva, bound to arrive in a fortnight's time with an half-signed contract and a bundle. 

It had been one of their more pressing reasons to marry. Damen couldn't understand Laurent's wariness.  

"Maybe Vere should switch to democracy after my death," said Laurent. He rolled off Damen and lay on his back, eyes on the ceiling.  

Damen turned on his side. 

"What are you -" 

"It's your daughter, Damen. I wouldn't presume." 

Damen would never laugh at the composure Laurent fought to preserve with every ounce of his will. He would never laugh at Laurent at all, certainly not when he was stiff like a diver waiting from icy water at the bottom of a cliff, but how could he not see the absurdity of it? 

"It's her mother's daughter for now," Damen said. "I haven't  seen her yet. You of all should know how little blood truly matters." 

Laurent pursed his lips.  

"She doesn't even have a name," Damen continued, gently.  

To that, Laurent was more responsive. He frowned and raised an eyebrow.  

"She was born months ago. How did they not name her?" 

He had moved to lean on his elbows, as if ready to sprint and go rectify this grave shortcoming immediately. Damen suppressed a smile. 

"I won't pretend to understand Vaskian culture." 

Laurent let himself fall back down on the mattress with a huff, in a surprisingly boyish gesture. He didn't protest when Damen guided his head on his shoulder. 

"We must find a name for the poor thing," he said and burrowed his nose into the arm Damen had wrapped around him.  

Despite the blasé tone, Damen recognised it as the concession it was. He had recently gained a new appreciation for small victories. 

"Yes," said Damen.  

He already had a name in mind, but he would let Laurent brainstorm for a while. 

They had time. 

 

 


	3. Day 2 - Laurel

"And here I was, feeling guilty for leaving you to deal with all the preparations." 

Laurent's voice echoed through the training arena. When Damen turned toward it, he was leaning against the entrance, his arms crossed and one leg bent, the sole of his boot resting against the wall behind him. He was still in riding leathers, his blond hair dishevelled and slightly curling against his neck.   

Damen let his sword fall to the ground and told himself it was deliberate. 

"Laurent." Damen was in front of him in four fast strides. He took Laurent's hand in his. It was slippery, both of them covered with a thin layer of sweat. He didn't care. "When did you get here? You're early." 

"I imagined you would need some assistance, but, if you're here dilly dallying with your friend - hello, Nikandros -" 

"Your Majesty," greeted Nikandros, sword still in his grip. He had perfected the art of sounding sardonic without being downright impudent. 

"- then I suppose you've exhausted all your responsibilities." 

"Almost," said Damen, squeezing Laurent's hands. Laurent, who was _here_. "The Akielons have finished all the set up and are now either resting or training. The Veretians are still arguing on what tapestry will look best on the dais." 

"Are they worried picking gold or blue will inevitably offend one of us?" 

"You know how they get. I told your master carpenter that I risked taking the whole throne with me every time I stood up and he had both redone. I'm afraid they could fit two of you now." Damen knew he was sporting a smirk to mirror Laurent's own. "He said my size was unfortunate." 

"There there, Damianos." Laurent squeezed Damen's hand one last time, then let them go. He casted a glance at Nikandros. "Some Vererians are quite satisfied with your size." 

Damen, who was also watching Nikandros now, saw him swallow and nearly choke on his spit. 

He caught Laurent's gaze, ready to reprimand him with a pointed look, but Laurent cocked an eyebrow at him and fluttered his blond lashes. _Long, like a cow's_. Damen had missed him so terribly. No harm in indulging him a bit. 

"The organisers would like for the both of us to participate in the same events," he said. "They are being very insistent about it." 

The appreciating glint in Laurent's blue eyes was a reward in itself. 

"We're taking part in the Okton and the swordfighting," said Laurent. "The only one I'm missing is the combat. Maybe it's time to change that." 

"It wouldn't be fair," said Nikandros, unwittingly taking their bait. "You don't wrestle in Vere. You can't just improvise." 

"Are you worried a loss would hurt my ego?"  

Nikandros tried and failed to keep himself from rolling his eyes at Laurent. He was lucky there were no other Veretians present, ready to fight him for it.  

"I'm worried it wouldn’t be an honourable victory for Damen." 

"Should we start practicing now? Would that ease your mind?" Laurent said. Then, with a quick turn of his head, "What do you think, Damianos? Are you going to spread oil on your body," he lifted his long fingers to his throat, "and wrestle me naked?" 

Laurent unlaced the top of his collar with deft movements, the fabric parting to reveal unblemished skin, fairer than his flushed, slightly sun-tanned face. 

Damen didn't even have to entirely fake his sharp intake of breath, the way his posture changed from placid to a painful awareness of every twitching muscle. He had really missed Laurent.  

"See?" Laurent said to Nikandros. "Do not give away the crown of laurels yet. You should know by now, I never play a game I don't think I can win." 

Nikandros regarded him with a mixed expression Damen couldn't easily interpret. Maybe he, too, was learning that things, and people, weren't simply black or white. 

"I think for Damen you would," he said. "Now, I'm going to go solve the matter of the tapestry. I am still the kyros, after all." 

Laurent nodded at him. "Tell them to pick blue, that King Damianos will survive the insult." 

This time, Nikandros did nothing to hide his eyeroll. He left them, then, and Damen was alone with Laurent for the first time in almost a month. 

"You have to stop needling him," Damen said, his hands framing Laurent's cheeks.  

"It's too easy. Is he ever going to realise?" 

As he spoke, Laurent relaxed into his touch. 

 Damen could see the signs of weariness, the aches that followed a long journey by horse. He had noticed them before, when Laurent had tried to keep them in check – the way he'd leant against the wall, how he kept shifting from one foot to the other to lessen his discomfort -, but now Laurent was letting him see the full extent of it. 

"No, he'd never think me that cruel," said Damen. In truth, he suspected Nikandros enjoyed all the material they gave him to later lecture the king on damaging influences and inappropriate behaviours. But he'd deal with Nikandros later. 

He rested his open hands on Laurent's shoulders and kneaded them. "I trust everything was fine in Arles?" 

"As fine as a pit of snakes can be," Laurent sighed. "Though everyone's happy about the games. Those that are on board with the unification and those who just want to see Veretians beat Akielons." 

"They can certainly try." 

Damen smiled, and Laurent smiled, and their smiles met in the middle. 

"We do have some free time," Damen said, their breaths mingling. "What should we do with it?" 

Laurent wrinkled his nose. "A bath, for starters," he said. Damen conceded the point.  

"But after," Laurent lay a hand on Damen's chest, above his heart. "After, I wouldn't really mind getting coated in oil."

 

 


	4. Day 3 - Family

The child's apartment was a twenty by fifty feet example of the core differences between Damen and Laurent. 

Damen had been told the child had dark thick curls and green-brown eyes. He knew from one of Vannes' reports that the mother's name was Doula and that, as any Vaskian baby girl was considered the daughter of all Vaskian women and blood relations weren't valued in their culture, neither Doula nor the country as a whole would miss Damen's daughter too much. 

He was ashamed enough that he couldn't remember which of Halvik's girls had green eyes. When he'd been asked for his preferences in furniture, he'd said "green" to the palace architects and had entrusted the minutiae to their competence. 

Laurent, of course, hadn't deemed their competence sufficient in the least and had taken over the whole project. 

Also, while Damen had intended for his suggestion to translate into some green cabinets, maybe some garments, Laurent had interpreted the theme more... figuratively. 

Three walls were painted from floor to ceiling to simulate a forest, while the fourth portrayed a meadow with a single horse running in the distance, on his saddle a rider with brown skin and long auburn curls trailing behind her. It was a typical Veretian scenery, one Damen had grown familiar with while traveling with Laurent's troop. Damen supposed that, whether Laurent realised it or not, was the point. 

It was endearing to say the leas, to see Laurent's single-minded determination and fastidiousness focused on something so inconsequential. 

Or maybe it was of more importance than Damen could grasp. With a dead mother and a soldier father and brother to impress as his only guidance during childhood, he knew he lacked depth on certain delicate human matters. 

Laurent, who saw everything, probably remembered Doula with the green eyes. 

In the end, though, Damen had had a personal contribution to add to the chamber. 

He had felt quite ridiculous while ordering the embroidery and answering questions about size and colour and style of cursive, but now, with Laurent's stunned expression in front of him, he was content for the small humiliation.  

Laurent, leaning on the crib (green, with daisies drawn on its sides), had his left index firmly enclosed into a tiny baby fist, while the right one had been tracing the single stitched word for the last several minutes. 

Damen added it to his list. 

Things that could make Laurent speechless: 

  * Six crossbows trained on him 
  * A baby blanket 



The silence had been going on for quite some time when Laurent's hand stilled on the fabric, but he didn't speak. 

"Unless," Damen said, caught by a sudden worry. "If it's too painful -" 

"Shut up," said Laurent. His breathing was laboured.  

Another beat of silence. Then, "She's going to resent being given such a long name." 

"She's going to be glad we named her after a good man," Damen replied. 

"Or maybe she'll do none of those things," said Laurent, and trailed his thumb over her smooth pudgy cheek.  "Who knows how you'll surprise us, Augustine." 

 

- 

 

Damen had been led to believe that babies were boring. 

Not that, traditionally, Akielon men nor Akielon nobility in general spent much time with babies. Servants were paid to do all the perfunctory things required to keep them alive and growing, and that was it. Because babies were boring. 

Augustine was learning how to sit up by herself. She smiled when someone smiled at her (she smiled the widest at Laurent, Damen reckoned, but he may be biased). She banged her fists a lot. She loved Damen's curls, and his chest, and his chitons. She liked to bang her fists against all of those.  

Augustine wasn't boring in the least.   

Laurent had a precise schedule of how often and for how long they had to see Augustine every day. Evenings, at the very least, had to be spent in her company, lest something terrible should happen to her development. Meals were optional, but Laurent liked dining while watching Augustine nap, and Damen liked dining with Laurent, so. 

"She recognises smells," Laurent provided as explanation. Damen wasn't unsure how he could know that, as Augustine's communication skills only extended so far as gurgling sounds. She did burrow into Laurent's hold in a similar fashion as she did with her wet nurse, though, and Laurent had no food to give her. "She's starting to recognise faces. I don't want her to get confused about who her parents are." 

There was just as much enjoyment behind Laurent's motives as there was parental obligation, but Damen was so happy Laurent had referred to them both as Augustine's parents that he didn't even feel like calling Laurent out. 

Soon enough, Damen could no longer remember how life had been before. Thoughts and concerns about Augustine - if she was sleepy, or cold, or hungry, or happy, or if she missed her dad and his curls - were always at the back of his head, so much he wondered what had been there in their place. 

 

- 

 

The women who helped take care of Augustine said she was too young to speak yet, but she seemed determined to defy them. 

In the last days, she had switched from a constant litany of  _ba_  sounds to a constant litany of  _pa_ sounds on her own accord _._  

It was a cool afternoon of spring, Damen and Laurent had nowhere to be, and she was practicing her _pa_ s like it was the best thing in the world. She had earned some encouragement. 

"Papapapapa," she babbled. 

"Yes," Damen said. "Pa-pa." 

She answered by taking a fistful of Laurent's hair and putting it in her mouth. 

"She'll speak when she has something to say," said Laurent, eyes half-opened. He was so sleepy it took him a while to notice what was happening to his neat golden locks. "At least there's no doubt she's your daughter," he murmured as he freed them from her clutch. 

"Papapa," said Augustine, merry as only a baby princess could be.  

"Yes, it is a shame," Laurent said, kissing her brow. "I agree whole-heartedly, _mon_ _cœur_." 

To this, Augustine smiled, banged her first on Laurent's jaw and said, "Papa." 

Damen scooted closer to them. 

"I think she just spoke," he shout-whispered. 

Laurent rolled his eyes in the fondest way it could be done. "I don't think it counts," he shout-whispered back. 

"Don't mind him," Damen said to Augustine. "Your papa has a hard time accepting nice things." 

He gently pushed her onto her side, closer to him. She widened her green-brown eyes at him, giggled, took a fistful of his chiton and put it in her mouth. 

A soft giggle had Damen lifting his eyes from the spit stain forming on his chest. 

Laurent had one hand lying on the pillow under his cheek and the other into Augustine's curls.  

"Let her be," he said. "It's just a bit of spit." 

His voice, so spontaneously happy, seemed to surprise even Augustine, who released the chiton and rolled onto her back. Laurent cradled her chin with his fingers and she repeated, "Papa". 

"You can't deny it this time," said Damen. "She spoke." 

"Yes. They'll write it under her statue in the Kingsmeet. 'Said _papa_ at a very young age.'" 

But his words couldn't keep Laurent from flushing. Shades of pink and red went from his cheeks to the sliver of chest visible from the top of his sleep shirt. 

Damen would forever be grateful for this moment. How Laurent had looked incredulous, and just a little queasy, and almost shaking with hope. How everything had aligned for them to get to witness this. 

"Do you know what your first word was?" he asked. Laurent may have burst into flames without a distraction. 

"Auguste used to say I came out of the womb speaking in perfectly articulated full sentences," Laurent said. "The truth is quite bland. It was _maman_.  Apparently it made Auguste very jealous, he tried to teach me his name. He had to settle for Gus for a couple of years." 

It was clear Laurent had been told the story more than once. It must be a nice thing to have, a memory from where your memory couldn't reach back.  

Damen would never know. Kastor and his father were dead and, even if they had lived, Damen wasn't sure they would know. 

Another thing Damen had considered inconsequential before.  

"You got to have hers," said Laurent, who had heard Damen's own answer in the way he'd posed the question. "You'll get to have so many things." 

"We both will." 

Maybe that was what made a family – a string of inconsequential things.  

He was about to say something to that effect to Laurent, but Augustine fussed sleepily between them, and suddenly they had more pressing matters to attend to.

 

 


	5. Day 6 - Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some mature content.

Laurent found him in between corridors, drawing him away from the guards flanking him.  

"Damianos," he said, when he had Damen pressed against a shadowed corner, hands on Damen's bare shoulders.  

He trailed his palms until he was framing Damen's face, a thumb caressing the stubble on his cheek.  

He went on his tiptoes and rested his mouth on Damen's, soft, slow. It was the kind of kiss they exchanged when entering or leaving a room the other was in - a greeting or a farewell, no less instinctual than a verbal one.   

When he pulled back, Laurent's lips remained glistening and parted. He seemed surprise by himself. Damen smiled helplessly.  

"Did you need me for anything, dear?" Damen asked, wounding his arms around Laurent's back. "Or were you just overwhelmed by -"  

"Hush," said Laurent, his mouth against Damen's jaw, deliberate now. Then, in his ear, "Can you fake a Patran accent?"  

"You know I can," said Damen.  

Laurent stepped back, still in Damen's arms but far enough to look him in the eyes. He had that diabolic look he employed when he tried to be approving.  

"Good," he said. "Don't shave today. We leave at dusk."  

He gently moved one of Damen's curls away from his forehead, in his eyes a dangerous glint. Then he was gone, a flurry of blond hair and blue clothes, before the curl had time to fall down again.  

  

- 

“Who am I to be?” 

Damen hadn’t seen Laurent for the rest of the day, but Laurent had arranged for him to find the garments of a rich merchant in his chambers. Now, at the stables, he was faced with a Laurent dressed in much simpler clothing, with a smudge of dirt on his cheek and his blond head hidden behind a hat. He looked positively unkingly. 

Damen was traversed by a complicated feeling of both eagerness for what awaited them and longing to peel the leathers off Laurent and have him right here. 

“A wine merchant,” Laurent said, and Damen had to touch the black smudge. “Patran, of course. Don’t ruin my disguise.” 

“And you?” With a hoarser voice, “There’s still slavery in Patras.” 

Laurent caught his wrist to bat his hand away, but intertwined their fingers. 

“Don’t push your luck.” 

Then, they were off. 

  

- 

  

It was a journey of several hours and, at the end of it, an inn in the middle of a clearance. A place with no easy getaway. 

That troubled Damen. Laurent always knew what he was doing, but his methods weren’t always the ones Damen preferred. 

“Relax,” Laurent whispered as he handed his horse to a stable boy. “We’re going to have a nice dinner, then a nice fuck, then we’ll be out of here.” 

“I don’t believe you for a second.” 

Laurent regarded him like he did sometimes when Damen was being inappropriate but pleasing, but he stayed silent and led him to the entrance. 

Damen ordered a room for him and his apprentice. The innkeeper was a chatty woman, which was a blessing because, when he inquired about the food, she carelessly told him that Creus, the famous grain merchant, was dining just now and Damen ( _Lamen_ , actually, as he’d grown fond of the name) was welcome to join him. 

Creus was the man behind Alkybiades, the kyros of Dice, and Alkybiades was one of the main opposers of the unification on the Akielon side. Laurent’s aim was evident – sway the man who held the money and you’ll sway the man who held the power. 

“I really couldn’t pass for Patran at all,” Laurent explained in the few feet of privacy they had from the entrance to the dining hall. “Plus, it would be ludicrous to have a wine merchant who doesn’t drink.” 

Damen nodded. 

“And you expect him to badmouth Akielons with a foreigner?” 

“Akielons? No, I expect him to badmouth Veretians.” 

  

- 

  

Creus was a small man, with mousy brown eyes and bony fingers, in which he held a bag of coins as if afraid the table itself might steal it. 

He gestured for Damen to sit and threw a snotty look at Laurent, but didn’t protest when he sat down as well. 

“I am Lamen,” Damen said, careful to harden all his consonants as Patrans did, “and this is my apprentice Maurent.” 

From the way Laurent’s face contorted, he had a hard time suppressing either annoyance or amusement. It was unnecessary, but so was making Damen dress like he was about to be summoned at Bazal’s royal palace. 

Damen and Creus soon got engaged in the kind of schematic small talk one does with strangers of similar professions. Of the many things Damen was good at, directing conversation wasn’t one of them, but he knew not to worry. He was under no impression that, though he had been silent for most of it, the one in control of the exchange was anyone but Laurent. 

There was also a group of Veretian travellers in the dining hall. Laurent kept sneaking unobtrusive glances at them, waiting. 

One of them stood up and Laurent tensed in his seat. The man had to walk past them to get out of the hall. Laurent raised his untouched glass of wine and stack out his elbow with perfect timing for the Veretian to hit it and send red liquid spilling all over Laurent’s front. 

“Watch it,” Laurent yelled. The Veretian tried to apologise, but Laurent waved him off with the fastidious authority that looked so natural on Laurent the King and so pathetic on Maurent the apprentice. The Veretian cursed him and left. 

“Fucking Veretians,” Laurent muttered. To Creus, he said, “I don’t know how you can accept a union with those slithery snakes.” 

As he spoke, Laurent nudged Damen on the calf with his foot. 

Damen sprang into action. “Maurent,” he ordered. “Go change.” 

When Laurent was gone, Damen sighed, making a big show of it. “Excuse him, he’s young and doesn’t know what he says.” 

But Creus hummed, torn between impudence and silence, and Damen gently coaxed the truth out of him. 

  

- 

  

Damen pried the door to their room open and, “You were wrong,” he said, before looking up. 

He expected – he didn’t know what he expected, but Laurent was lying in the middle of the bed, on his front, with a book in his hand and only a white shirt covering him. 

He only noticed the book because he heard Laurent shut it as Damen closed the door behind him. He wouldn’t have, otherwise, not with this unabashed view of Laurent’s naked feet, and his legs, and the back of his knees, and his thighs, and his – 

Damen’s feet carried him to the bed, and another part of him carried him to rest a hand on Laurent’s back, then further down, on the curves of him. 

There was slickness in between his thighs.  

“Want to tell me why I was wrong?” Laurent looked at him from above his shoulder. The skin of his face was back to his flawless paleness, but for the faint flush on his cheekbones. 

Damen bent to kiss him at the very tip of his tailbone. He collected the oil that had spread around and nudged Laurent’s thighs apart, until he reached the place for which the oil was intended.  

“It can wait,” he said, and kissed him there, too. 

He found Laurent open and pliant as he teased his entrance, but waited until his legs were twitching with the tension of staying still before breaching it with his tongue. Laurent shifted his limbs on the mattress in a languid dance and let out a soft keening moan, and Damen had to stop and just breathe on him as he regained hold of his senses.  

Love-making with Laurent was always a bargain, a game of concessions, of tension and surrender, but they were learning. Damen, not to get lost into his own pleasure. Laurent, that he could let himself have this, for how long as he wanted, how many times he wanted, just because he wanted it. 

Laurent undulated his hips underneath him in a snappish manner, half instinct and half demand. Damen saw him spread further, lean more heavily against the bed, another barrier lifted. He thumbed where Laurent was so privately vulnerable, so that he could go deeper. 

The next sound came muffled, by the sheets perhaps. It wouldn’t do. 

Damen drew himself up and covered Laurent’s body with his, his lips brushing Laurent’s ear. 

“Let me hear you.” 

He slipped further down, not enough to be uncomfortable for Laurent but so that he could feel Damen’s weight on his back, his heat. 

Laurent arched his neck to catch Damen’s mouth, Damen moving to meet him. They kissed slowly, meticulously, and when they separated Laurent’s lips glistened with oil, too. 

“Fuck me,” said Laurent, eyes glazed. “Was that loud enough?” 

Damen casted the collar of Laurent’s shirt aside and took a sliver of flesh between his teeth – the smooth angle at the junction between neck and shoulder. He sucked on it, lightly at first, as he felt Laurent decide whether he would allow it to happen, then with intent, when Laurent let go and his breaths turned into desperate whimpers.  

 “That,” said Damen when he was satisfied, “was loud enough.” 

“Brute.” Laurent tugged him back for another kiss with a hand in his curls. It was an imperious affair this time, all teeth and tongues and hips rising, so heady and familiar that Damen found himself sinking into Laurent like it was another man ruling his actions – and it was. 

Damen thrusted lazily, his pace matching the sluggish circling of Laurent’s hips. It was impossible not to think of the beds they had shared before they had one to call their own, when they had been open about their affections and before them, when they had felt the drowning magnitude of what was building between them and tried to fend it off, like trying to stop a flood with bare hands. 

It was playful between them, now, more often than not. The desperation in it was such because Damen couldn’t envision ever not being desperate for Laurent, but it wasn’t spurred by fear anymore.  

But today was different. It was more reverent, more silent than they were used to. It was an act of remembrance, so warm and so achingly tender Laurent didn’t need to be touched to spill. 

Damen quickened his strokes. Laurent would insist for him to spend himself inside, though he was oversensitive, and Damen had learned that going fast was a good way for both of them to get what they wanted. 

He climaxed with his face buried in Laurent’s neck, his open mouth panting against the purple mark he had left earlier. He had enough presence of mind to roll off and on his back – another learned thing, because Laurent grew hot and fussy if he lingered – before everything went white at the edges. 

Laurent allowed him some quite moments of break, but Damen knew it wouldn't last long.  

It took Laurent fifteen breaths to lose his patience. Damen counted, as it distracted him from the heaviness of his limbs and the way his thoughts seemed to float along a current whose rhythm he couldn't anticipate. He smiled at the impatience in Laurent's voice when he finally spoke. 

“You have to tell me now,” Laurent said, turning on his side and making no move to leave the bed, and that, too, was different.  

“What?” The ringing in Damen’s ears hadn’t entirely subsided yet. He thought Laurent was going to urge him to bathe. 

Laurent stared at him, patiently. 

“Creus,” said Damen. Of course. They were kings. That meant talks of politics with their seed still drying on them. “He’s not worried about Veretians. He’s worried about slaves. He’s afraid the price of grain produced in Dice will rise when slavery is abolished and people will start importing it from Patras.” 

Laurent nodded. His lips were pursed; he was attempting to solve this puzzle right here, brain half muddy after his climax, when there was a small army of advisors back at the palace, who desired nothing more but to counsel the kings and actually earn their salaries and their bragging rights. 

"Higher duties on imports from Patras," said Laurent. "And, with that money, a subsidy to the employers of former slaves." 

Damen kissed his temple. "That would displease the traders." 

"The traders aren't holding hostage the support of a kyros. They can stay displeased." 

"Yes," said Damen. "The kingdom is safe." 

He grabbed one of Laurent's thighs, the muscle firm under his hand, and hooked it over his hips. He was already feeling the slow vibration of arousal gathering in his belly  again. 

Laurent huffed, but he let himself be manoeuvred.


	6. Day 7 - What If

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, happy end of capri week to everyone! I just got back from my trip and am now able to post again. There should be one chapter left.

The meeting had come to an end, but Charls was hesitating in excusing himself.

Damen, as promised, had given him a good price for the all the cloth required in the palace, but Laurent had been brutal when negotiating new uniforms for his army. Not that it had been much of a negotiation – Charls had been so dumbfounded to see Lamen wearing the king’s lion pin he had mostly nodded to anything Laurent had said from then on.

But Charls couldn’t complain. Laurent had deemed long-sleeved chitons a necessity, as a king couldn’t go around with sun-burned skin peeling from his arms. Besides, all the couples in Vere now wanted to wear matching wrist cuffs as tokens of their love, and cloth merchants had started offering cheap alternatives for those who couldn’t afford to have some libs of gold hanging from their forearms.

It had been a season of thriving for the cloth industry. Damen couldn’t guess what else Charls may want.

“Your Majesty,” Charls said, in that subdued voice one uses to ask for a favour. “There’s someone –“

Laurent raised an eyebrow at him and said, “Go on.”

“There’s a boy.” Charls shook his head at himself. “He said he knew you. I wouldn’t bring it up, but – we weren’t going to take him with us, but when we refused he muttered something about a sapphire earring.”

“A sapphire earring.” Laurent clutched the armrests of his chair, his eyes wide. “Is he here? Bring him to us.”

The wait as Charls went to fetch the boy was straining. Damen had circled Laurent’s arm with one hand and Laurent had put one of his on top of it, squeezing it. They were alone but for their guard, but it was still more touching that Laurent usually allowed in public.

It may be a boy who’d heard about the earring from Nicaise. Hope was a terrible thing. Charls should have come to Damen first, so he would have checked by himself. It would be torture for Laurent to grieve twice.

The door of the chamber opened.

Charles entered first, beckoning the boy to come in with a hand, and there he was.

Nor that he needed any beckoning. He walked in with his chin held high, his every movement graceful, like a part of an elegant performance.

The curls had been cut shorter, but his huge blue eyes had the same devilish glint in them, and Damen felt a phantom ache in his thigh. The simple garments somehow suited him.

Nicaise had never needed decoration to be beautiful.

Laurent rose to his feet.

"Leave us," he said and made a fastidious hand gesture until their entire guard was out of the chamber. Some wore uncertain expressions, as if scared a scrawny Veretian court boy could overpower and cause harm to the kings. Damen couldn't completely fault them.

To Charls, who was also exiting, Laurent said, "You'll be rewarded for this."

Charls nodded and left.

"You're alone for a moment and you shackle up with the barbarian slave," Nicaise said, and Damen understood why Laurent hadn't wanted to have Akielon soldiers as witnesses.

"It's barbarian king now," said Laurent. Damen, who had become attuned to his moods, could feel the happiness in him. 

"Is that supposed to make it better?”

Damen braced himself for the convoluted play of jabs and retorts he was about to endure, but that didn't happen.

Laurent stepped forward, which was such an unforeseen gesture Nicaise didn't step back only because he was too shocked to. 

Laurent put a hand on his chopped curls.

It was strange, like watching two snakes coil around each other, but Damen remembered he'd seen them holding hands.

 

-

 

Nicaise was having trouble adjusting.

Those were Laurent's words, as Damen would describe it more like throwing a tantrum.

Nicaise had learned to be stealthier than he'd been in Arles. He at least seemed to realise he no longer held any position in any court at all and certainly not in an Akielon one, and he was allowed to live in a sumptuous apartment and do nothing only because of Laurent's generosity.

Of course, Nicaise acted like he found such generosity insulting. All sorts of things were insulting to him: the palace was too plain, the food too spicy, the people entirely too Akielon, and oh, the lack of entertainment!

So Nicaise spent his days alone, publicly as an ascetic and privately protesting.

Or, that was what he did when he was with Laurent, who enjoyed their barbed conversations as, Damen suspected, he did miss some of the Veretian… spirit.

Damen had no idea what Nicaise did when he was by himself, holed up in the chamber Laurent had had refurbished to fit Veretians trends. 

Mostly, Damen wondered what Laurent's plan for Nicaise was, if he had any. He wouldn't let Laurent be swayed by guilt - it grew harder every day to justify Nicaise's presence in the palace. No one formally knew what he had been in Arles, but there were whispers. Akielon courtiers found it distasteful for a young Veretian man with no title to be held in such regard by the foreign king - as many addressed Laurent now. Voices said he had been the Regent's pet; some, and those were the problem, said he was Laurent's.

Nicaise didn't want to socialize. He refused to speak the language, though he understood it. He refused private lessons. He refused _public_ lessons. He refused to eat with the court, even with the small Veretian part of it, which everyone interpreted as a personal slight to their hospitality.

With the matter of the slaves, Laurent's presence, their impending marriage, the hundreds of things that made a country what it was and had to be merged with the other hundreds across the border - the two kings had their hands full.

It was too important. Nicaise would learn to adjust, or he would leave.

 

-

 

There was someone in the library. 

Not Laurent. Laurent wouldn't hide, and his usual recliner with a view on the cliffs was unoccupied. 

In such a hot, humid day, no one would think to find solace in a sun-exposed room.  

"Hello?" Damen called. He felt silly. He was the king. 

The sound of limbs scuttling. Damen followed it until he found their owner. 

Nicaise was nestled behind a stack of books, knees to his chest. He wore one of the soft plain tunics he had preferred in Vere. They were boyish garments, but Damen couldn't let himself follow that line of thinking. Not after the Kingsmeet. 

"Nicaise," said Damen. “What are you doing here?”

Nicaise looked up at him with his vicious blue eyes. “He said I could go wherever I wanted.”

He, Laurent. Laurent had told him to just call him by his name, as there was an overabundance of kings in the palace and he couldn’t imagine Nicaise addressing him as His Highness, but Nicaise refused.

“You and I are not friends,” he’d said. He still called Laurent the Prince, sometimes.

Damen didn’t possess Laurent’s natural aptitude with children – but Nicaise wasn’t a child anymore. He must be closer to sixteen than fifteen. He had the habit of rubbing an irritated hand on his jaw whenever it didn’t feel perfectly smooth anymore. 

“It’s morning,” said Damen. “Shouldn’t you be doing something? Is your tutor running around the palace looking for you?”

“With all that weight he carries around I don’t expect him to be capable of much running. But thanks for the image.”

The words felt too much like a dismissal. Damen stomped his foot on the ground.

“Nicaise,” his voice was edgy. “Go. Now.”

Nicaise didn’t move. He blinked his long pretty lashes and shook his luscious curls. Then, he burst into tears.

His fingers trembled when he brought them to his face, and Damen was startled into stillness. He couldn't remembered the last time he had had someone crying in front of him.

Laurent should be here. Laurent would know what to do. What would Laurent do?

Take Nicaise into his arms, maybe? Or calm him down with sweet words, like a spooked horse?

Or - no. Damen was getting better at this. He knew what Laurent would do.

"Are you -" Damen frowned. "Are you faking it?" 

There was a pause.

Slowly, Nicaise dragged his hands away from his face. Beneath them, his expression morphed to one of perfect composure. He straightened his back and stood up with the grace of a dancer.

"You're not completely hopeless, Akielon." 

Progress, thought Damen. Akielon was a step up from barbarian.

 

- 

 

Laurent put the finishing touches on his riding clothes with fast, practical gestures. From his position on the bed, Damen could see his back, directly, and his front, reflected in the mirror in front of him.

A good way to wake up. Damen relished in the view as he came to full wakefulness, even through the bittersweet knowledge of why Laurent was wearing riding leathers in such sweltering heat.

"I thought you weren't leaving until later."

He stretched on the bed. As he did so, Laurent turned to meet his eyes. Their blue was tinged with surprise.

"I know how you feel about goodbyes," said Damen. There was too much distance between them. He got up and closed it.

His arms went around Laurent's waist, his chin on Laurent's shoulder. They stared at each other in the mirror.

One month of separation. Damen was already craving him, and he had him in his hold. It wasn't a physical matter. The prospect of daily life without Laurent's tireless commentary was almost unbearable.

But he would bear it. Laurent needed to tour his reign and show his people their king was well and had nothing but Vere's wellbeing in mind when he spoke of an alliance with Akielos. At the end of it there would be the games, where Veretians would see for themselves how easily they could merge together.

Laurent leaned his head into Damen's. "It's not that," he said. “Preparing a Veretian entourage is –“

“Needlessly complicated?” supplied Damen, his lips brushing Laurent’s jaw.

“Not needlessly,” said Laurent. “It’s Vere. I’ll be judged for every detail.”

“And they’ll find you faultless and powerful. Like a king should be.” He let his hands roam over Laurent’s chest, the taut shifting muscles of his abdomen. “Like you are.”

“I’ll be sure to relay the opinion of the King of Akielos.”

“You should. You should tell them about the King of Akielos’s army, his palaces, his gold,” he spun Laurent around and pressed his back to the mirror. “His mouth,” he said, lips curling, and kissed Laurent.

“A compelling argument.” The tone was acerbic but breathless, and Laurent relaxed against him, the lines of his face softer.

“You’ll be fine,” said Damen. “I have no doubts.”

He framed Laurent’s cheeks and punctuated his statement with another kiss, firmer this time, with a hint of tongue just to make Laurent smile but no intention to go further.

“You have such unwavering faith in me,” Laurent said. “I don’t know how to deal with it.”

“Me neither.” Damen was smiling so large it hurt. “We’ll have to share the burden.”

“On the topic of burdens,” said Laurent with an apologetic frown. A bad sign. “I spoke to Nicaise.”

A very bad sign.

“He doesn’t want to come.”

“It’s not a choice,” said Damen. “Laurent, he can’t just not obey an order.”

It made no sense. Nicaise hated Akielos. He should be jumping with joy at the idea. He could follow Laurent all around Vere and, once they reached Arles, take back his spot at court as Laurent’s pretend pet. No one would touch him. When Laurent travelled back to Marlas, then Ios, no one would tell him what to do anymore.

“And I should bring a wrathful little brat along with me for a month?” Laurent snarled. “No, thank you. He stays. Besides,” he savoured the following words, “he said you’d take care of him.”

“He said, ‘Damianos will take care of me’?”

Laurent's lips twitched. "He didn't call you Damianos."

“I’m not a nanny,” said Damen, not even irritated, just appalled.

“He’s sixteen. He doesn’t need a nanny,” Laurent said. Then, with a smirk, “He’ll keep you company. I think he’s fond of you.”

 “Well, it’s not mutual.”

Laurent rubbed two fingertips against Damen’s upper lip. “I think you’re lying.”

 

-

 

"It's cute," said Nicaise, his pink lips curved in a grimace. "I guess." 

Damen made to intervene, quite offended, but Laurent stopped him simply by laughing. Augustine, who was sitting in Laurent's lap, interrupted the disruption of his laces to giggle with him. 

"She's not an _it_ ," said Laurent, looking from Augustine to Nicaise with what could only be called fondness. 

"She's a baby. It's not like she'll remember it," Nicaise said, probably unaware that he'd changed the pronoun. He did many things to please Laurent now. Damen would never point it out to him, but he did take notice. 

"Children are like sponges," said Laurent, retying one of his sleeves now that Augustine had moved to toying with the other. Between father and daughter there was a mess of deft fingers, knots and trailing laces. It was mesmerizing to watch. "Everything they experience will shape the person they'll become." 

"Oh," said Nicaise. He stretched his hand toward Augustine, ridiculously wary, like trying to touch a stove that may be hot. At Laurent's encouraging nod, he petted the dark curls on Augustine's head. 

Laurent smiled like a cat after a meal. Damen didn’t share his investment in Nicaise's improvements, but he'd learnt to appreciate Laurent's small victories just the same. 

"Would you like to hold her?" said Laurent. 

Nicaise shot him a terrified look. His hand stilled. 

Damen guessed he didn't want to do it, but didn't want to say no to Laurent either. Or maybe he didn't want to appear weak, like he couldn't even hold a baby. 

"If you're afraid she'll bite -" Damen said. He was trying to keep his grin indulgent and not mocking, but he knew how Nicaise would react. 

"Give her to me," said Nicaise, the sentence coming out like it was a single word, and made to grab Augustine.  

Damen and Laurent shared a look of satisfaction as Laurent easily lifted Augustine and settled her into Nicaise's lap. It took a while to completely disentangle her chubby fingers from his clothes. 

Nicaise was wearing a tunic with open soft cotton laces at his collar. Augustine, never one to be discouraged, immediately went to work on those instead, her mouth drooling on Nicaise's chest. 

Laurent made a gesture with his hand to show Nicaise how to support her weight properly. Nicaise took this task very seriously. Maybe Laurent was onto something.

"Hello, princess," Nicaise said, in that awkward tone people who are uncomfortable with children use when confronted with one. He opened his palm against her tiny back, his fingertips brushing the sensitive flesh of her hip. She giggled, an involuntary response to Nicaise's involuntary tickling, and Nicaise's entire form slumped, curving around her like a cocoon, a blush spreading high on his cheeks. 

 _Oh_ , thought Damen. 

 

- 

 

“Is Torgeir being ludicrous on purpose?” Vannes asked, running a tired hand on her forehead. She spoke Akielon, as this was an Akielon matter, but her accent was made more pronounced by her fatigue.

They were all tired. The bone deep exhaustion of the entire room was plain on the council’s faces, their backs hunching over the large wooden table. Half-empty goblets were scattered all over it and, in the middle, sat a map of their territories and their neighbouring countries.

There was no solution. At least, not one Damen could come up with before a good night of sound sleep.

“He’s being clever,” said Laurent. “He thinks we have no other option. You can set the price you want when you have no competitors.”

“He’s right,” said Herode. Damen was surprised to hear his voice, as he thought he’d fallen asleep at least half an hour ago. Maybe he’d had enough time to nap and wake again.

Someone shifted in the periphery of Damen’s vision. Not Laurent, who was sitting at his right, but who was standing behind Laurent. Nicaise. Damen had almost forgotten he was there at all. Why Laurent insistent to have him witness their council meetings, and from such a prominent place, Damen couldn’t fathom.

He couldn’t fault Nicaise for moving. He’d been on his feet for hours now. It was hell for a delicate court boy’s back.

“Maybe we should resume tomorrow,” said Damen, pushing his chair back. It screeched on the marble floors. The sound startled at least one councillor into wakefulness.

“No,” Laurent said, lifting a diaphanous hand. His sleeve had slipped, and the cuff glinted in the low candle light of the chamber. “We didn’t hear everyone speak.”

Damen halted, but sent Laurent a questioning look. There was no one else. Everyone had given their opinion, and every opinion had been equally useless.

“Nicaise.” Laurent turned his head back and smiled his disturbing encouraging smile. “Tell us. What do you think?”

What was Laurent doing? He wasn’t usually that cruel. If anything, not to Nicaise. Now they, and all the members of their joined councils, would have to be spectators to a poor boy humiliating himself.  

Unsurprisingly, Nicaise flushed a deep red. Unexpectedly, he didn’t sputter.

He spoke in a steady voice, with only the faintest Veretian tilt. “There are other options,” he said. Then, louder, “Vask has copper mines too, just like Patras.”

Laurent gave a tiny nod, and Nicaise stepped forward, his hips almost touching the side of the table.

“We could import the copper from Vask to Vere and bring it to Akielos by sea.”

“Vask’s mines are all the way up North,” said Kleitos, an Akielon councillor. “It would be expensive.”

Damen could see Nicaise’s hands twisting behind his back. He was getting impatient. What was a logical conclusion for him, and for Laurent, and for probably every Veretian in attendance, wasn’t such for the straight-forward Akielons.

“We don’t have to actually _do it_ ,” he said, only shy of snapping. He was still working on his self-control. “Torgeir needs our money. He also needs to maintain a good relationships with us. We just have to make him believe we could choose another way.”

The room filled with contemplating hums, but Damen kept his eyes on Laurent. He sat with an arm draped on the back of Damen’s chair, one leg stretched in front of him in his favoured position.

His face was blank. He would let himself savour the victory in private.

He had had a solution since the beginning, but he needed to give time to Nicaise to find it too, and he needed the council to be at the very end of their wits for Nicaise’s contribution to hold the biggest impact.

The council looked at Nicaise with new eyes now, especially the Akielon side.

It was brilliant, and brilliantly executed, and Damen would never get used to it – the burning deep in his gut whenever Laurent did something outrageous and achieved the impossible with the seeming effortlessness of a flick of his wrist.

Laurent had given Nicaise a chance and, with it, Nicaise had earned something that couldn’t be bought with all the gold in the royal palace.

At the next council meeting, Nicaise sat on a chair.

 

-

 

His first seat was the worst one, of course. The one in between the two factions, the most distant from the kings. It didn’t matter. Nicaise sat on it like a newly crowned king on his throne.

He bid his time. Slowly, he carved a place in Laurent’s faction only he could fit in.

When, ten years later, they officially moved the capital to Marlas and the two kingdoms were one in all the ways that mattered, Damen sat at Laurent’s left, Nicaise at his right.

 

-

 

Damen didn’t have much grey in his hair, but Augustine was responsible for all of it.

“Sweetheart?” he called, walking past the guards standing outside her apartments. If her guards were here, so was she, but it would be rude to storm in.

She was a teen. Privacy was important.

The door opened and there she was, her bare arm bound in more gauze than strictly necessary. Damen owed Paschal so much.

“Father,” said Augustine, which meant she wanted to be difficult. He was _dad_ usually, _papa_ when she'd been speaking Veretian for too long, _father_ when she was unhappy with him, or with Laurent, or with the world in general. As a teen, she was very unhappy with the world in general.

"Paschal told me you had an accident during training," said Damen. 

She gave him that wide-eyed look she reserved for when her fathers were embarrassing her, and went back inside a snort. She didn't shut the door behind herself - a small victory. Damen took it as permission to follow her to the reclining couch. They sat together in silence.

Damen allowed it. The note he had received from Paschal hinted it might not have been entirely an accident. No wonder Augustine was shaken.

"I'm fine," said Augustine, at last. She was sulking, her arms crossed in front of her chest, but she did it with her nose high in the air and an air of superiority and contempt that was entirely too Veretian.

Damen couldn't recall why he'd ever been worried Augustine may struggle with her varied cultural heritage. She embodied Akielon pride, Vaskian bluntness and Veretian cunning with no effort at all.

"Does your arm hurt?"

"It's just a cut," she said, but her chin wobbled.

The sudden, overwhelming urge to kill the culprit almost choked him. He could. Harming a member of the royal family was cause for death.

Augustine’s mouth curved with the hint of a smile. "You should see how the other's doing."

Damen didn't need to, he knew she could hold her own. But she was so young still. So precious. Would it be so bad to shelter her just a little longer? He took her hands in his.

"Augustine, has this been happening a lot? You must tell me."

"Sometimes," said Augustine in a soft, heart-breaking voice. "They pick on me because I'm the princess. They think that's why I'm allowed to train with the best. That I'm not as good because I'm smaller than them."

"Darling." Damen circled her bony shoulders and brought her close to his chest. She weathered it. "That's untrue."

"I know that." Augustine disentangled herself from his hold and sat, straight-backed and poised, her expression neutral. It was like watching a brown, female, miniature Laurent. The moment had passed. "Papa was like, half of Kastor when he fought him after the Failed Coup," she used the term that was now in history books, "but he still killed him because he was _so_ smart. And with Govart too. Govart was like _four_ _times_ bigger than Papa.” Her eyes got wider and wider with each word. “And they fought _twice_ , and only because Papa spared him the first time. And the second time Papa didn't even have a _weapon_ , but he defeated him with the phenomenal prowess of his _mind_." She paused only to catch her breath. "Is it true he killed Govart with a _chair_?"

"Yes," said Damen. The story had become somewhat of a legend during the years of the unification. It was the kind of thing Akielons were responsive to.

It was a well-known anecdote, but Augustine had clearly just heard it. _The phenomenal prowess of his mind._ Paschal himself, maybe?

" _So smart_ ," Augustine repeated, her mouth slack with awe. Damen had to ruffle her unruly curls as he smiled warmly at her. He suppressed a ridiculous pang of jealousy. Was killing people with a sword not enough anymore now?

"And," continued Augustine, "there is no doubt I'm smarter than those imbeciles at the academy." She wrinkled her nose. "They like to wrestle each other _naked_."

Damen let out a forced chuckle. What was wrong with wrestling naked? “Of course you are, my love,” he said, clearing his throat. "Paschal picked a good example."  

"Oh no, it wasn't Paschal who told me," said Augustine. "Nicaise did."  

  

-  

 

The sound of feet on the floors roused him from his doze. The pale red light of the sunset surrounded Laurent like a hue.

"Your daughter has a bit of a hero worship for you," said Damen, stirring on the covers.

"My daughter had her arm sliced open by an idiot boy,” said Laurent, “and that's what you focus on."

Laurent sat down on the edge of the bed and untied his boots without finesses, then toed them off and left them there, dusty and discarded on one of the carpets. He lied down and crawled up until he could rest his head on a pillow, on his side, drooping blue eyes gazing into Damen’s.

He let out a relieved sigh before continuing, teasing once again. "Don't be jealous, Damianos. Maybe she’ll gain a new appreciation for untimely public declarations of love and she’ll hero worship you too.”

“Why is that the only thing that gets remembered,” Damen muttered, but there was no bite. He could feel nothing but calm with Laurent so close to him. He leant forward and pecked him on the lips, because it had been hours since the last time. Hours, ages.

“Have you been to see her?” he asked, palm spread on Laurent’s hip.

“Yes, but only briefly. She was heading to the baths. She assured me she had received enough paternal comforting already,” his lips twitched with amusement, “and she would see us at supper.”

“How does it feel to be dismissed by a thirteen year old, Your Highness?”

Laurent answered with laughter and a kiss, their bodies drifting languidly until there was no way for them to be touching more. Laurent’s clothing was rigid but he was pliant underneath it, lost in the unthinkingly simple pleasure of their togetherness.

A knock on the door interrupted their lull.

“Come in,” Laurent called. Neither of them moved, expecting Pallas or another member of their guard.

It wasn’t Pallas. Very few people would dare come into their chambers unannounced. Even less would be let through.

“Nicaise,” said Laurent. He sat up and straightened his jacket, just enough to be decent.

Nicaise walked in with quick, bold strides and took his place on the recliner that, with the years, had unofficially become his.

“A nap before dinner?” he said, pinning them with a brazen look. “And you’re always complaining about the hardships of the crown.”

“Thank you for speaking to Augustine,” said Damen before Nicaise’s acidic tone could make him forgo politeness.

Nicaise hummed, expression torn as if he was trying not to be offended by the King of Akielos thanking him.

In the end, he settled for, “Is she all right now? She was ready to slit throats when Paschal called me.”

Laurent let out a breath beside him. Damen, too, couldn’t completely hide his surprise.

But of course. Paschal couldn’t summon the Kings for a shallow cut, but Augustine needed someone. Who better than the council member closer to her in age, and the man who was her uncle in all but name?

What a strange little family they had.

“She ordered me out of her room and to go find something kingly to do,” replied Laurent.

Nicaise snarled. “Back to normality, then.”

They shared a grin, their blue eyes one the lighter mirror of the other.

“Did you need something, Nicaise?” asked Damen. If Nicaise left now, he and Laurent may get another half hour of lying down and kissing.

Nicaise looked down at his hands. His easy composure was gone, replaced by a tense and – _happy?_ restlessness. He took some time to collect his words.

“I’d like,” he said, “to get married. With my kings’ permission.”

This time, neither Damen nor Laurent could refrain from gasping. Laurent, swept by sudden emotion, clapped his hands together.

“Wait, does Kallias know?” Damen had to ask, because it would irritate Nicaise and mutual irritation was the basis of their relationship. Besides, he had developed a deep affection for Nicaise, but that didn’t mean he understood how someone could bear – and even _wish_ – to spend a lifetime with him.

Nicaise made a big show of rolling his eyes.

Laurent swatted Damen on the chest. “Nicaise,” he said. “Of course. When?”

“Spring,” said Nicaise, and flushed a warm crimson red.

It was endearing. Like baby snakes were endearing.

“We’ll be honoured to attend,” said Damen, meaning it. It could also be taken as a dismissal.

“I haven’t invited you yet.” Nicaise flashed them a grin, and stood up. “If you have no need of me, I’ll go.”

“You’re excused,” said Laurent. Then, as if he couldn’t hold it back, “I’m glad for you, Nicaise.”

Nicaise nodded and flushed once more, the colour reaching down his neck.

Laurent slumped down on the bed as soon as the door closed behind Nicaise’s retreating form. He took one of Damen’s hands in his. Their cuffs clinked together.

"A former slave and a former pet, getting married as free men,” he said, his voice rarefied, airy. “I am quite proud of what we’ve done, Damianos."  

His chiselled profile was no less impeccable than it had been in the prime of his youth, but it had lost some of its sharpness, some of its angles.

"Yes," Damen said, breathless in the face of Laurent's all-encompassing beauty. "Yes, me too."

Laurent turned on his side and traced a line on his shoulder with the thumb of his free hand. It was almost faded now, the only lash scar that almost reached Damen’s front. It didn’t pull anymore. At the touch, it was indistinguishable from the skin around it.

"Come now,” said Laurent. “Let's go see our daughter."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean what if? /nervous laughter/ Nicaise is _fine_.


	7. Day 8 - Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an epilogue of sorts, not to mention one of the sappiest things I've ever written

Damen took the crown in his hands – the golden laurels for him, the sapphires and starburst for Laurent. It would suit Augustine better than he’d ever suited them.

If he had to find something he regretted, in this marvel of a life he’d been given, it was not having more children.

It wasn’t a wish he had harboured during youth. Even when Jokaste had presented him with the possibility of fatherhood, what he’d felt had been duty, not longing.

Kings needed heirs. It was the way it was. His own mother’s miscarriages had sorrowed the entire kingdom. From tales of those times, and of Kastor, and from the extent of Kastor’s deeds, he’d learned that the sooner there was an heir, the more solid would be his reign.

He realised now, with some irony, that he’d never had an heir at all. He had an heiress.

If the thought of the children they could have had made Damen wistful, he could only imagine what it did to Laurent. But it was Laurent who had always refused.

Damen had first broached the subject when Augustine couldn't have been more than two. She had been sleeping in Laurent's arms, Laurent who was singing softly at her, humming sweet Veretian nothings, and the sight had made Damen greedy.

"We could have more," he'd said. "You could have one of yours. A tiny blond princess with blue eyes. There are ways."

But Laurent had stiffened, and held Augustine closer, and said, "She is mine." His voice had been unyielding, sharp like a blade. 

Damen had rested his hand on Laurent's arm, his thumb brushing Augustine's curly head. He had felt Laurent's muscles relax under his touch. 

"Besides," Laurent had added, in a dry, humorous tone that was almost apologetic, "I don't think Kastorette would sound quite as good." 

Damen had let out a breath of laughter. "That'd be unforgivable."

Laurent's gaze had met his, his expression serious and resolute, and he'd said, "It must be Augustine alone." 

It was obvious it pained him, but it was just as obvious this was something he'd thought long about, with calm and coolness, and it was final. 

"We can unify the kingdoms during our lifetime," he'd continued, his eyes pleading Damen not to argue with him, "but we can't erase decades of hate and prejudice. A child of mine would be too tempting for the Veretian side. And you can't risk having a male heir: the gender issue in the Veretian ascension is a muddy matter. There has to be no other option." 

There had been other conversations after that, all with similar endings. Their plan was mad enough, it needed all the stability possible. 

Augustine was that stability. A condensation of their countries' future, beloved as a child and admired as the adult she was now.

Laurent had been right. It was good to have a focus, so the people's affections didn't get split. No comparisons. No discussions about whether one heir would be more suited than the other. 

Augustine was what they had, and they'd come, slowly, to accept her. 

She had married a Patran nobleman. Not the prince Torgeir had intended for her, but a duke of her choosing, a scholar with no interest in ruling and a distaste for slavery, who loved Augustine with a devotion even Laurent had reluctantly declared adequate for his precious daughter. 

She had heirs of her own. The line was secure for decades to come.

Damen and Laurent's job was done.

He put the crown down on its cushion.

 

-

 

"I don't think I've understood you correctly."

Augustine's shocked gaze bounced from one father to the other, uncomprehending.

"Shall we try again in Akielon?" said Laurent. "You have been away from Veretian-speaking territories for some time."

Damen subtly elbowed him. He was having a bit too much fun with this. Laurent’s only reaction was to straighten his jacket. That was, until Damen felt a booted foot forcefully pressed over his own. He was wearing sandals.

"You wish to abdicate," Augustine said, repeating Laurent's earlier statement. "Both of you. Both thrones. Together."

Laurent nodded. Damen nodded and slid his foot away. Augustine lifted an accusing finger.

To Damen, she said, “I knew all those hits to the head during wrestling practice would eventually leave permanent effects.” Then, to Laurent, wielding her finger liberally in front of him, “But what is _your_ excuse?”

Laurent encased her raised hand in his. “ _Mon cœur_ ,” and she deflated at the use of the private endearment, “ _c’est parfaitement sensé_.”

“Reasonable? How is this reasonable? Kings don’t leave their thrones, not unless they’ve done something truly despicable.” Her voice caught, turning smaller, and weak. “Kings die.”

Damen thought of his father’s long-drawn sickness. His brother’s treachery. His own naiveté.

Of King Aleron, killed by an arrow of his own army, of his own family. Had Auguste been ready to rule then? In the middle of a gruelling battle, surrounded by enemies and snakes?

Of the King he himself would have been, had he taken the throne right after his father’s last breath. What he had considered honourable, what he had considered right. How mistaken he’d been.

“That, I never understood,” said Laurent. The lines on his face made him more gentle, but just a stunning. “Why we ask our children to be crowned while consumed with grief.” He brought his free hand to Augustine’s cheek, and brushed it with his knuckles. Augustine held her breath. “There is a time to lead, and a time to rest. You’ve had the final word in all our decisions for years now.”

“Besides,” Damen added, his open palm searching his usual spot on Laurent’s waist, “we’re still the King of Akielos and the King of Vere. You are to be the first to rule the New Artesian Empire alone. We’d like to see that with our own eyes.”

“And what if your father and I died at different times?” said Laurent. “Coronations are expensive. Might as well only have one.”

“I’d always assumed the other would rule the whole kingdom,” said Augustine, like she had a sour taste stuck in her mouth, “if one were to pass.”

Damen could sympathise with Augustine’s averseness for the subject. Outliving Laurent – he would find solace in witnessing Augustine thrive, his grandchildren grow, his hard-fought kingdom flourish, but he’d retire every night calling for death to take him too, for he’d rather sleep in a grave than alone in an immaculate bed.

Somehow, he didn’t think it likely. Laurent was younger than him, and less of a fool. He could do without him for a while.

“We don’t want that,” he said. If they didn’t get a say in the end of their life, they did in this. The end of their kingship.

Augustine paused, her chest heaving in turmoil. Damen saw it – it was the first time she was truly considering their proposal.

“This is,” she struggled to find a word. “Unconventional.”

“Yes,” said Laurent. “Fitting, isn’t it?”

Augustine slipped her hand out of Laurent’s grasp, crossed by a different kind of surprise. Her gaze, now cold and calculating, was firm on Laurent.

"You've thought this through."

"Don't I always?" 

"You may be going senile." 

"All the more reasons to leave you the throne." Laurent smiled. "Don't be prickly, my love." 

Laurent had gotten softer with age, but it was still like two deaf people yelling at each other not to be loud.

“When?” asked Augustine, her eyes squinted with wariness.

“Maybe during the anniversary of the unification,” Laurent said. “You know,” he tilted his head. “Symbolism.”

“And economics,” said Augustine, to Laurent’s delight. “Only one feast.” Then, more labouredly, “I will,” she pushed out, “consider your offer.”

“Of course,” said Damen. “Of course, dear.” There was no rush.

Laurent made an irritated gesture with his hand, like batting away a fly. “Enough niceties,” he said. “Damianos and I were nearly killed for our thrones. We very nearly killed _each_ _other_. You should be elated at the prospect.”

“ _To gain so much and lose so much, all in the space of a moment_ ,” recited Augustine.

It brought Damen back on the perfumed balcony where Torveld had said those words, the same words Laurent repeated when he felt particularly lecturing. _To get what you want, you have to know exactly how much you are willing to give up._

He glanced at Laurent. He stood, as always, rigorous and impeccable. Only the slightly parted lips, the bleary eyes betrayed his own melancholy.

Augustine continued, unaware of their wave of nostalgia, her mouth finally relaxing and curving at the edges, “Isn’t it the fate of all princes destined for a throne?”

“Good thing you’re not a prince, then,” said Laurent, and flicked her on the chin, like he used to do when she was a child.

Augustine didn’t seem to mind.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end.  
> Thank you for reading. Special thanks to everyone who commented.  
> You're welcome to come talk to me on [tumblr](http://sunshinerish.tumblr.com)


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